
Class 




Copyright ]s^^ I ^ ' ' 






COFfRIGHT DEPOSn^' 




The Lady of the Portrait 

From a painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds 



THE BEAU OF BATH 

AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS 
OF EIGHTEENTH CENTURY LIFE 



BY 
CONSTANCE D'ARCY MACKAY 

AUTHOR OF 

^^ Costumes and Scenery for Amateurs,'' ' ''''Patriotic Plays and 

Pageants,'''' ^^The House of the Heart, and Other 

Plays for Children,''^ etc. 



ILLUSTRATED FROM PORTRAITS 




NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



Copyright, igis, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
Published SeJ>te?nber, 1915 



No performance of these plays may be given without full ac- 
knowledgment to the author and publishers. Where a play is 
not the title play of the volume, as in the case of Ashes of Roses, 
acknowledgment should be made to read as follows: "By Con- 
stance D'Arcy Mackay ; from The Beau of Bath and Other One- 
Act Plays; Copyright, 191s. by Henry Holt and Company ; 
Produced by arrangement with the publishers." Where a play 
is named in the title of the volume of course the acknowledg- 
ment need not state what volume it is from. 

Amateurs may produce the plays in this volume without 
charge. Professional actors must apply for acting rights to the 
author, in care of the publishers. 



THE QUINN & BODEN 00. PRESS 
RAHWAY, H. J. 

SEP 23 1915 

^CI,A411652 



k^ 



PREFACE 

The one-act plays in verse which this volume con- 
tains are dramatic miniatures of some of the notables 
of the eighteenth century in England. All of the plays 
are of the same period. Therefore, if so desired, three 
or four of them may be given consecutively with no 
change of scene by the simple expedient of moving the 
furniture and having different lighting. Watteau- 
like screens, a clavier for a harpsichord, the right use 
of chintz and brocade, firelight, candlelight or moon- 
light skillfully managed, and the thing is done! 

Little theatres, theatres intimes, and studio stages 
are constantly showing that atmosphere may be cre- 
ated by the most simple effects, whether for amateur 
or professional. And surely the atmosphere of no 
century can be conveyed more easily by a mere touch 
than that of the eighteenth, with its wits and belles, 
its powder and patches, its mannered elegance, its 
brocades and lace. 



CONTENTS 




The Beau of Bath . . . . 


PAGE 

• 3 


The Silver Lining .... 


• 13 


Ashes of Roses . . . 


. 27 


Gretna Green 


. 41 


Counsel Retained .... 


• S3 


The Prince of Court Painters 


• 75 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The Lady of the Portrait . . Frontispiece 

Miss Linley 41 

Edmund Burke 53 

George Romney 75 



THE BEAU OF BATH 



THE BEAU OF BATH 

CHARACTERS 

Beau Nash 

Jepson, his servant 

The Lady of the Portrait 

Place: Bath. 

Time : Christmas Eve, 1750. 

Scene: A room in the Beau's apartment. 

Furniture and hangings of faded splendor. Candles 
gleam in silver sconces. Christmas holly hangs here 
and there. At the left a fire burns on the hearth, first 
with small blue dancing flames, then deepening to a 
rosy glow. 

At the right there is an inlaid desk with candles 
burning on it. Toward background a door opening 
into another room of the apartment. 

In the center background hangs the life-sized por- 
trait of a lady dressed in the fashion of the early eight- 
eenth century. Her dress is a shimmer of rose-colored 
satin. Beneath her faintly powdered hair her face is 
young, dawn-tinted, starry-eyed. There are no other 
portraits in the room. 

At the rise of the curtain Beau Nash is discovered 
seated at a round lacquered table, center foreground. 

3 



4 THE BEAU OF BATH 

He is an old matij still very erect and stately, very 
much the great dandy. The soft light of the room 
hides whatever ravages of time there may be in his 
face. It also hides the fact that the sea?ns of the black 
velvet suit he is wearing are growing gray, and that 
the creamy lace ruffles that grace his sleeves and jabot 
have been very often mended. Near him stands his 
servant, an old man slightly stooped, wearing a shabby 
brown cloth suit with a buff vest and tarnished gold 
buttons. He looks at his master adoringly. 

Jepson" 
And is that all, sir? 

Beau Nash 
Bring my snuffbox. So! 
Where are the cards? 

Jepson 
(bringing a pack of cards on a silver tray). 
Here, sir. 

Beau Nash 

Now you may go. 

(Jepson pauses). 
You hesitate? 

Jepson 

(with feeling). 

Why, sir, I'm loath to see 

You sitting here alone. 



THE BEAU OF BATH 5 

Beau Nash 

This room, for me, 
Is filled with memories. 

Jepson 

Aye, sir, I know. 
I've served you thirty years and seen the flow 
And ebb of fortune, and I cannot bear 
Night after night to 

Beau Nash 

Jepson, all that's fair 
Passes and fades. Even the eagle's wings 
Grow slow with age. Content with little things 
Is wisest. 

\_Jepson fetches a score pad and pencil from 
the desk, and stands waiting with them at 
his master s table. 

Jepsoist 
Yes, sir. 

Beau Nash 
(watching fire). 

See how strangely blue 
The little flames are. // it should be true . . . 



Jepson 
(puzzled). 



Sir? 



6 THE BEAU OF BATH 

Beau Nash 
That a spell is wrought by candle light 
And gleaming flame when it shines faintly bright. 
When hours grow small and embers lower burn 
On Christmas night they say old loves return. 
'Tis merely folly, Jepson. Ne'er again 
Shall I behold that brilliant courtly train 
Of wits and beauties, fops and gamesters gay — 
All that made life in Bath when I held sway. 
Time was, my nod would stop the Prince's dance: 
A belle was made by my admiring glance: 
'Twas I who set the fashions in brocade, 
But — laurels wither and the roses fade. 
And now I sit alone. My reign is done. 
The wits and fops have vanished one by one. 

Jepson 
(moved). 
You were the King of all, sir. High and low 
Admired you. 

Beau Nash 

Thank you, Jepson. 
(Takes score pad and pencil.) 

You may go. 
\Exit Jepson, left, quietly and reluctantly, with 
a backward glance at his master who still 
dreams at fire. 
Everything passes. Naught remains of all 
Except that portrait smiling from the wall. 

[He crosses to the portrait, candlestick in hand. 



THE BEAU OF BATH 7 

Disdainful Rosamond, you still look down 
As when you were the toast of all the town. 

Lips red as holly, eyes so archly bright 

Nay, but your beauty dims the candle's light! 

[He puts down the candlestick. 
'Tis vain to wish for things that may not be ; 
Yet could you for one hour come back to me 
Would I not say all that I left unsaid 
In days gone by? But you are long since dead, 
While I, grown old, above the embers cower, 

[He goes hack to his chair. 
Or play a game to help me pass the hour 
When shadows flicker . . . and the candles blink 
Until I drowse . . , and ... 

[He nods and dozes in his chair. The Lady 
of the Portrait moves, smiles, slowly and 
gracefully steps down from the portrait, 
silently crosses to the table, her eyes on 
the Beau. She catches up a handful of 
cards. 

The Lady 

'Tis my play, I think 
If I see rightly by the candle's gleam. 



Beau Nash 
(in a whisper). 



Rosamond! 



8 THE BEAU OF BATH 

The Lady 
(lightly). 
Well, sir, do you always dream 
When you play cards with ladies? If 'tis so 
I think 'twere best to call my chair and go. 

Beau Nash 

(bewildered, passing a hand across his eyes). 

I thought . . . that you were dead . . . and I was old! 

The Lady 
(still lightly). 
Fie, sir, to think that hearts like ours grow cold ! 
And when I hear you call upon my name 
Shall I not step down from that gilded frame 
To spend an hour of Christmas night with you? 
Come! Let us gossip of the folk we knew! 
Lord Foppington, whose wit I did adore 

Beau Nash 
I thought Lord Foppington a monstrous bore! 

But Kitty Cavendish Taith, one mad night 

We drank her health from out her slipper white. 

The Lady 

(with spirit). 
I vow then you were tipsy, one and all. 
For Kitty's slipper was by no means small. 



THE BEAU OF BATH 9 

Beau Nash 
Nay, let's have done with thrust and counter thrust! 
Ah, Rosamond, in days gone by you must 
Have known I loved you, yet you were so cold. 

The Lady 
(very low). 
I had been warmer, sir, had you been bold! 

Beau Nash 
Bold! At your feet dukes laid their coronets, 
I could but offer you some gambling debts. 
These, and the worship of a world-worn heart 
Would scarce pass coinage in Dame Fashion's mart. 
So I fought down my love for you, and yet 
Your slightest gesture in the minuet 
Would stir my pulses. With a covert glance 
I watched you through the mazes of the dance, 

So fair, so radiant But what need for me 

To tell you of my heart's poor comedy. 

Is that a tear which falls for it, my sweet? 

The Lady 
(very sweetly and gently). 
A tear is naught, sir. 

(She turns to him.) 

Ah, must I repeat 
My love in words before you will believe 
That I too loved in vain? 
(As their eyes meet her meaning grows clear to him.) 

Now I must leave, 
For 'tis not long until the clock strikes one. 



io . THE BEAU OF BATH 

Beau Nash 
And you loved me ! 

The Lady 

Our hour is almost done. 
I leave you to your firelight and your chair, 
And to your game that's always — solitaire! 

\JVith delicate tread, moving silently as a ghost, 
the Lady steps back into the portrait. The 
Beau dozes again. The rosy glow of the fire 
dies, leaving the room in utter twilight. 
Jepson enters. 

Jepson 
'Tis bedtime, sir. The clock struck long ago. 
The embers on the hearth are burning low. 
Even the wav'ring candle feebly gleams. 

Beau Nash 
(with a startled glance about the shadowy room). 
So late! ... So dim! ... I have been dreaming — 
Dreams ! 



THE CURTAIN SLOWLY FALLS 



THE SILVER LINING 



THE SILVER LINING 

CHARACTERS 

Fanny Burney 

Richard Burney, her uncle 

Cephas^ an old servant 

Place: Chessington. 

Time: 1778. 

Scene: Library in Mr. Crisp's house. 

A pleasant room, a trifle littered with books and 
papers. All across the background, windows curtained 
in palely flowered damask. A hearth at left, with a 
fire burning rosily. Brass andirons. A bellows. Near 
the hearth, facing audience, a dark-wooden settle with 
a high back. It is handsomely carved and appears to 
be quite old. Candles in silver candlesticks are lighted 
on the hearth shelf, and there are also framed sil- 
houettes standing there. 

At right, near background, a door opening into 
atiother room of the house. Also at left, towards fore- 
ground, a round table with a lighted candelabra, sev- 
eral drawings in striking black and white. A brass 
inkstand, sand, quill pens, etc. All along the right 
wall a dark bookcase full to running over with books. 
Its top shelf is piled high with them. Their covers are 

13 



14 THE SILVER LINING 

mostly brown and musty. There are also black, dark 
blue and green ones, but none in bright colors. 

At the rise of the curtain Fanny Burney, rather 
small, delicate, with a girlishly pretty face and softly 
curling unpowdered hair sits writing at the table, a 
small work-bag and sampler lying on her lap. She 
wears a pale yellow dress, flowered in white, over a 
pale yellow petticoat, and a white lace fichu. Black 
velvet ribbon at her throat, and about her wrists. She 
is deep in her work when there is the sound of so?neone 
opening the door at right. With amazing swiftness 
Fanny drops her pen, sweeps the drawings over what 
she is writing, drops her sampler and bag on top of 
them, and is crocheting when her uncle, Richard 
Burney, enters. He is a tall, portly, ruddy ?nan, with 
a ?nost important manner. He wears a handsome 
plum-colored traveling suit, and cari-ies a long church- 
warden pipe which he lights without a " by your 
leave " at his first opportunity. 



Well, Fanny! 



Richard Burney 

Fanny Burney 

(surprised). 
Uncle! 



Richard Burney 

Cephas welcomed me. 
There's no one else about as I can see. 

(Fanny drops a flurried curtsey.) 
Where's Mrs. Gast? 



THE SILVER LINING 15 

Fanny Burney 

In bed. And Daddy Crisp 
Has gone to London. 

Richard Burney 

Cephas, with his lisp, 
Has so informed me. And I also know 
Your father left here just three days ago, 
So I have missed him. Lord ! What a to-do ! 
I'm just from town myself. Child, how are you? 

Fanny Burney 
(prettily) . 
Quite well, and hope my kinsfolk are the same. 

Richard Burney 
(puffing at his pipe before the fire). 
Um. Yes. 

Fanny Burney 
What news ? 

Richard Burney 

The whole town rings with fame 
Of a new author, who has writ a book 
Called " Evelina." Ever5rwhere you look 
You see it advertised. Yet no one knows 
The author's name and rumor madly goes 
Naming first this one, and then that one. 



i6 THE SILVER LINING 

Fanny Burney 
(passionately). 

Oh, 
If they should ever guess ! (She grows pale.) 

Richard Burney 

They're sure to know 
Sooner or later. Burke sat up all night 
To read it. Said if he could guess aright 
The author's name, that fifty pounds he'd give, 
While Dr. Johnston cried out: "As I live 
I can't forget the book. It's my delight! " 
Why, Fanny! How you look! First red, then white. 

Fanny Burney 

(trying to speak without a tremor). 

You see, in Chessington, our life is dull, 
And everything you say seems wonderful, 
And stirs the heart like bells of London town, 
And so this — " Katherina " wins renown? 

Richard Burney 

Nay, " Evelina " so the novel's named. 
The author who has written it is famed 
Forever. 'Tis a puzzle. No one can 
Be positive who is the lucky man. 
If, when I've read it I have found 'twill do 
For you to read, 'twill be permitted you. 



THE SILVER LINING 17 

Thank you. 



Fanny Burney 

(demurely). 



And busy. 



Richard Burney 
How's Charles? 

Fanny Burney 

My father's vastly well, 



Richard Burney 
Humph. I think that I could tell 
That without asking. Times are hard. I saw 
A friend of Charles' last night — young Clapperclaw 
Who swears that Clark wrote " Evelina." Fool! 
But when I said 'twas more like Fielding's school 
Mrs. Thrale looked at me the oddest way, 
Said: "Did you get the note I sent to-day? 
Go search for ' Evelina ' nearer home. 
If you would find her you've not far to roam." 
(Fanny turns and looks at him, aghast; but he con- 
tinues placidly.) 
I think she means that Anstey's written it. 
But, lord, I'm sure that he has not the wit! 
Although the strangest people try to write: 
Children and fools. I've not forgot the night 
Your father found you at it, clipped your wing. 
Forbade such nonsense and then burned the thing, 
And brought you to your senses. Pen and ink 
Are not for women, but for men who think. 
Females are cackling geese. 'Tis only men 
Who have the strength of mind to wield a pen. 



i8 THE SILVER LINING 

Fanny Burney 
(picking up pen from table). 
And yet this pen is made from a goose feather! 

Richard Burney 
(frowning). 
Well, pens and women do not go together. 
A bluestocking is a disgrace, (Yawns.) Heigho! 
The hour grows late. I'll take my candle. 

\^He crosses to table, takes candle, and pauses 
to pick up drawings for inspection. As he 
lifts one it catches on the manuscript beneath, 
and the latter sweeps to the floor, and falls 
with pages outspread. 

Fanny Burney 
(with a stifled excla?nation). 

Oh! 
Richard Burney 

(puzzled; then angry). 
What's this ? (Picks up a few pages.) Great heavens ! 

Fanny! Well, I swear 
You have been writing ! And you've hid it there 
Behind your sampler. Wait till Charles hears this! 

Fanny Burney 
(imploring him). 
Oh, Uncle Richard, if you'll 



THE SILVER LINING 19 

Richard Burney 

Silence, miss! 
You should be shamed to look me in the face. 
Thank God that no one else knows this disgrace. 
How far has this thing gone ? Come, answer me. 
Who else has seen this rubbish besides me? 



Fanny Burney 
(terrified). 



Oh, Uncle- 



RiCHARD Burney 

(with mounting rage). 

Wait till Charles and I confer! 
Who else? 

Fanny Burney 
(between sobs). 
I've sent it to a publisher. 

Richard Burney 
(furiously). 
Fanny ! Don't tell me you have been so bold ! 

Fanny Burney 

(sobbing wildly). 

Oh, — worse — than — that ! The — book's — already- 
sold! 



20 THE SILVER LINING 

Richard Burney 

(starting violently). 
Sold! Why, God bless me ! Fanny, you don't say 
That you got money for it? (He stares at her^ open- 
mouthed.) 

Fanny Burney 

(with a fresh burst of tears). 

Yes, to-day 
A — check — came 

Richard Burney 

(eagerly). 
For how much? 

Fanny Burney 
(choked with sobs). 

Two — ^hundred — pounds.* 

Richard Burney 
(staggered). 

Two hun Why, Fanny ! I am dreaming ! Zounds ! 

When did you write? 

Fanny Burney 

(struggling for self-control). 

A little, every day. 

I covered it with samplers and crochet. 

(She wipes her eyes.) 

* This is a slight exaggeration for the sake of dramatic effectiveness. 



THE SILVER LINING 21 

Richard Burney 
(quite mollified). 
What's the book called ? 

Fanny Burney 
(trembling). 

'Tis " Evelina." 

Richard Burney 

(stunned). 

You 
Wrote "Evelina"? (Fanny nods.) Lord! What a 

to-do ! 
When Burke hears this! That Clapperclaw's a fool! 

(With triumph.) 
I knew the book came from some other school ! 

(Expands as if talking to imaginary people.) 
" My niece, the authoress ..." 

Fanny Burney 
(approaching him humbly). 

Uncle, I know 
I've been deceitful, but I loved it so — 
My book. Forgive me. I won't write again. 

Richard Burney 
Eh? Oh, tut, tut! I wouldn't cause you pain 
For your — er — fault. 



22 THE SILVER LINING 

Fanny Burney 
(with emotion). 

Uncle, if you could dream 
All that it meant to me, the thrill — the gleam — 
You'll never guess what dull hours I've beguiled. 

Richard Burney 

(patronizingly) . 
There ! There ! Remember you're my niece, dear child. 
One mustn't be too hard on what's one's own. 



Oh, Uncle! 



Fanny Burney 
(with quick gratitude). 



Richard Burney 
(condescendingly). 
If you want to be alone 
Sometimes, and write, I've no objection — none. 

Fanny Burney 
(radiant). 
Uncle! 

Richard Burney 
(to himself). 

And when I think how quick it's done 

Just write a book, and make two hundred pounds! 

[^Cephas appears at door right, an old man in 
snuff-colored livery. He carries a candle, 
and an iron ring with some large keys on it. 



THE SILVER LINING 23 

Cephas 



Miss Fanny- 



Fanny Burney 
(to her uncle). 

Cephas wants to make his rounds 
And lock the doors. 

Richard Burney 

Then, child, good night. 
[Fanny takes a candle from the table. Mo- 
tions to Cephas to go. He exits, right, and 
Fanny drops a curtsey to her uncle. 

Fanny Burney 

Good night. 
Richard Burney 
(intercepting her). 
You think that you might write some more as bright 
As "Evelina"? 

Fanny Burney 

(modestly). 
I can try. 

Richard Burney 
Yes, do. 
\^Again Fanny etches him a dutiful curtsey. 
He smiles at her benignly between puffs of 
smoke as he stands with his back to the fire. 



24 THE SILVER LINING 

She exits, rightj with her candle. Richard 
Burney puffs complacently, yet with the air 
of a man who must speak aloud in order to 
give vent to his feelings. His sentences come 
between enjoyable whiffs. 

Richard Burney 
Well, even if the hussy's socks are blue 
She's my own niece. One shouldn't be repining 
To find bliie stockings have a silver lining. 
The little baggage ! Lord ! Two hundred pounds ! 
Well, Charles can spend it fixing up his grounds! 



QUICK CURTAIN 



ASHES OF ROSES 



ASHES OF ROSES 
CHARACTERS 

Kitty Clive 

Horace Walpole 

Phyllis 

RoxANE, maid to Mistress Clive 

Call Boy 
Place : London. 
Time: A Spring night in 1741. 
Scene: The theatre dressing-room of Kitty Clive. 

The bare white-washed walls of the dressing-room 
are almost hidden by the softly tinted costumes that 
hang fro?n their pegs. There are also shimmering 
cloaks, a wig or so. A mask and domino. A mock- 
ermine robe. In background, right, a door with a light 
cloak hanging on it. When this door is opened, the 
dingy backs of stacked scenery show dimly. Against 
the wall of left background a spindle-legged dressing 
table glittering with silver paste boxes, brushes, smell- 
ing salts bottles, powder boxes, all of which are 
reflected with double glitter in the mirror that hangs 
above them. ■_ Lighted candles in silver sconces jut from 
each side of the ?nirror. There are six candles in each 
sconce, and their illumination falls like a soft glory 

27 



28 ASHES OF ROSES 

over the room. There are two damask chairs with 
gilt legs, one for Kitty Clive, and one for any chance 
visitor. The one for Kitty Ciive is in front of the 
dressing table. The other stands near and is covered 
with a frou-frou of stage dresses. 

At the rise of the curtain Kitty Clive is seated at the 
table with Roxane in attendance. The actress is 
sumptuous in blue and silver brocade, worn over a 
white satin petticoat. Her hair is dressed very high, 
and is white with powder. A necklace of pearls and 
diamonds glitters about her throat. Her cheeks and 
lips are rouged. Her great eyes sparkle under pen- 
ciled eyebrows. Her hands are thick with rings. 
On her white satin high-heeled slippers flash the most 
brilliant of buckles. Her white silk stockings have 
silver clocks. Roxane, a slim, sprightly creature, wears 
an old rose dress looped over an old rose and white- 
striped petticoat. A white kerchief and a frilled white 
cap on her dark hair. A saucy white apron. She holds 
a harems foot mounted in silver and a silver patch box.. 

Clive 
Quick with the hare's foot! Lud, your hands are slow! 
Nay, I spoke sharply. Next the patches. So! 
Fasten this bit of ribbon to the right, 
And set this diamond crescent well in sight. 
Then for this side-wise curl more powder bring. 
How look I now? 

Roxane 

Mistress, as fair as Spring. 



ASHES OF ROSES 29 

Clive 
" As fair as Spring ! " God, what an age ago 
Since Spring and I were friends! I used to know 
The banks whereon the early violets grew 

Lifting their little faces deeply blue 

Yet not more deeply blue than a lad's eyes 
In those sweet days ere town had made me wise, 
Ere I had learned that flattery hides a dart, 
And fame feeds vanity, but not the heart. . . . 
Oh, those far days. ... 

(She speaks more to herself than to Roxane.) 

ROXANE 

(as a rap sounds on the door). 
Mistress! 

Clive 

(rousing herself). 

T,. , , , . 'Tis Walpole's rap. 

rsid him come m. 

[^Roxane opens the door. PFalpole enters, a 
distinguished-looking man with great charm 
of manner. He wears a suit of gray satin 
with the customary ruffles and flowered 
zvaistcoat. His tri-corn hat is tucked under 
his arm. His powdered wig is almost as 
elaborate as that of Clive herself. 

I knew you by your tap! 

\^She does not rise, but extends her hand, which 
he kisses gallantly. 



30 ASHES OF ROSES 

Walpole 
My tap is ever at the Queen and Star. 

Clive 
Fie, Horace! What a flatterer you are! 
How many occupations you must fit 
To start as tapster, and to end as wit ! 
A courtier also! 

Walpole 
Never that with you. 

Clive 
(to Roxane). 
Go wait, Roxane, and call me ere my cue. 

[Exit Roxane. Clive turns to Walpole with 
genuine feeling. 
My deep, true friend. There are not many such. 

Walpole 
Pensive, sweet Kit? 

Clive 
(affecting to be busy with powder puff and hare's foot). 

Nay, Horace, 'tis the touch 
Of an old sadness that the waking year 
Wakes in my heart. We mouthe and stutter here, 
Snatching such tinsel as the town may fling. 
While out beyond the city it is Spring . . . 



ASHES OF ROSES 31 

Spring in the country lanes where lovers stray, 
Spring! And the Devon hedgerows white with May! 
Hedgerows of Devon ! (Turns to Walpole.) Friend, 

there used to be 
A lad who walked in those green lanes with me 
And spoke of love. But I — I heard the town 
Calling me with a voice that would not down. 
I heard, I followed. London gave me fame. 
And all has changed since then — my life, my name. 
And yet I think I never can forget 
The garden where we parted. It was set 
With sweetbriar roses. 'Faith, I know not why - 
I tell you fragments of a day gone by, — 
Save that he said: "Dearheart, lest you return, 
A light shall ever in that window burn 
Through all the years." He had no subtle art. 
My country lover. Yet, against my heart 
To-night — his rose! (Takes a faded rose from the 

bosom of her dress.) 

Oh, Horace, you who know 
How vain and false and empty is the show, 
How foul the fawning, and how barbed the wit, 

Think me not mad to say farewell to it ! 

To quit the footlights for that candle's gleam, 
To seek that simple faith of which I dream. 
And find that the world lost for love is best 

ROXANE 

(rapping briskly and then entering). 
Mistress, a country zany, strangely dressed, 
Would speak with you. She comes from Devon way. 



32 ASHES OF ROSES 

Clive 
(instantly interested). 
From Devon? Bid her enter. 

Walpole 

(rising). 

I'll not stay. 
Adieu, sweet Clive. 

Clive 
(to herself). 
From Devon! 

(Suddenly perceives that Walpole is going, and etches 
him an abstracted curtsey.) 

Oh, adieu! 
[Exit Walpole. Enter Phyllis, a young girl, 
with a sweet, rustic look. She wears a pale 
yellow muslin dress, faintly sprigged with 
white and a little pale yellow straw poke 
bonnet, with pale yellow strings tied under 
her chin. Long lace mitts. A little white 
woolen cloak with swansdown edging. From 
beneath the shade of her poke bonnet her eyes 
look out with child-like earnestness. She re- 
gards Clive with timid awe. 

Phyllis 
M}^ name is Phyllis. May I speak with you? 



ASHES OF ROSES 33 

Clive 
(looking at her with great interest). 
Aye, child. Speak freely. 

Phyllis 

(shyly eager). 

Last night at the play 
I watched you. 'Twas so wondrous. You could sway 
The house to tears or laughter, swift as flame ! 
And so (though father knows it not) I came 
To-night to ask your counsel. You who know 
The secrets of the heart — its joy, its woe 

[Clivers first interest has waned a little. She 
goes on with her toilet, yet speaks very kindly 
and patiently to Phyllis. 

Clive 
Speak, child. But give me not too hard a task. 

Phyllis 

(gaining courage). 

Oh, Mistress, 'tis not for myself I ask! 
'Tis for a friend 

Clive 
(absorbed with the art of her patch box). 
A friend — — 



34 ASHES OF ROSES 

Phyllis 

(hurriedly). 

He lives alone 

In a thatched cottage that is near our own, 
And has a curious, rambling garden set 
With sweetbriar roses 

Clive 
(momentarily startled: then recovering herself). 

Roses? I forget 

Proceed, my child. 

Phyllis 
(with courage). 

And by a windowpane 
Each night, for years, through starlight and through 

rain 
Has shone a lighted candle. 

Clive 
(motionless). 
Ah! 

Phyllis 

(artlessly). 

They say 
That years ago his true love went her way 
To London town: and lest she should return 
And find the way all dark, he needs must burn 
That welcome gleam. Though she was fain to roam 
He felt that beacon light would guide her home. 



Home! 



ASHES OF ROSES 35 

Clive 
- (deeply moved). 



Phyllis 
(timidly). 
Was it not a tender thing to do ? 

Clive 

(deeply). 
Aye. 

Phyllis 

(ardently). 

Oh, there seldom beats a heart so true. 

He loved her always. 

Clive 
(in a thrilled voice, staring a-dream at sornething 
Phyllis does not see). 
Always . . . ! 

Phyllis 

Until now. 

Mistress, indeed I scarce can tell you how 
He came to care for me, his neighbor's child. 
I doubted that he meant it. But he smiled 
And said that after storm came peace and rest. 
Great loves flamed high, but simple loves were best, 
And sound of children's voices and a fire 

Lit on the hearth for Autumn days I tire 

You with my selfish chatter. Mistress? 



36 ASHES OF ROSES 

Clive 
(her face a mask). 

(searchingly.) 
You love him? 



Nay. 



Phyllis 

(with genuine passion). 

Oh, more deep than words can say ! 
Yet ever through my heart there runs a fear — 
If we were wed, that love of yester-year 
Might sometime lift the latch, and put to flight 
His heart's deep peace — ^set memory's torch alight — 
Re-ope the old wound, and the old, old pain 

Clive 
(after a moment). 
You need not fear — she'll not return again. 

Phyllis 

You think she will not — you who are so wise 

In the world's ways and see with such clear eyes — 

You think she will not? 

Clive 
(faintly smiling). 

I am quite, quite sure. 



ASHES OF ROSES 37 

Phyllis 

(radiantly). 
Oh, Mistress, for such counsel words are poor 
To give in thanks. 

Clive 

(rising wearily, her face beneath its paint suddenly 

grown old). 

Nay, child. No thanks, I pray. 
But sometimes . . . when the year is white with 

May . . . 
Remember me. 

[Phyllis suddenly bends and kisses Clive's hand, 
shyly impulsive and adoring. Clive lays the 
other hand for a moment gently on the girl's 
shoulder, looking at the youth of her, and 
then dismisses her with a light imperious 
gesture. 

Now go, child. 

[Exit Phyllis. 

Call Boy's Voice 
(without). 

Ready, all! 

ROXANE 

(entering breathlessly and with importance). 
Mistress, they wait. It is the curtain call — 

The curtain call And there's the prompter's 

bell ! 



38 ASHES OF ROSES 

Clive 
[^Looking at a jaded sweetbriar rose which she 
has taken from the bosom of her dress, and 
which now crumbles to dust under her touch, 
sifting like ashes through her fingers to the 
floor. 
Strange — for a moment since the curtain fell! 

CURTAIN 



GRETNA GREEN 




Miss Linlcy 
After tha portrait by Humphrey 



GRETNA GREEN 
CHARACTERS 

Maria Linley (secretly betrothed to Richard Brins- 

ley Sheridan) 
Thomas Linley, her father 
Avis Linley, her aunt 

Place: Bath. 

Time: 1772. 

Scene: The Linleys' home. 

A room that is a trifle shabby, furnished in the 
eighteenth century manner. Spindle-legged chairs up- 
holstered in faded damask. 

In the center background a door opening on the 
road without. Windows each side of it curtained with 
pale blue muslin flowered with pink roses. Under the 
window at right a spinet with music on the open rack, 
and piles of music placed on top of the spinet itself. 

At left a hearth with a fire burning. Toward back- 
ground a door. 

At right, against the wall, an inlaid spindle-legged 
writing desk and chair. 

Toward the center of the room, left, and facing 
audience, a winged chair upholstered in flowered chintz. 

41 



42 ^ GRETNA GREEN 

Toward the center of the room, right, also facing 
audience, a chintz-covered spindle-legged chair. 

At the rise of the curtain Avis Linley is seated with 
a sampler in her hand on chair, left, while near her 
at right, sits Maria Linley, with a book in her hand. 
Branched candlesticks on hearthshelf and spinet shed 
a soft radiance over the room. From outside the 
Autumn wind is heard blowing in fitful gusts. 

Avis Linley, who has fallen asleep over her work, 
is a woman of almost fifty, slender and upright as a 
willow luand. Her hair, faintly touched with gray, 
waves over a broad white brow. Her face, clear-cut 
as a cameo, is faintly tinged with pink. She wears a 
dress of pale blue chintz opening over a white petticoat. 
Maria Linley, her niece, has her aunt's clear-cut cameo- 
like features, the same delicate flush on her face. She 
is young, charming, and in spite of her success in public, 
rather diffident, with the manner of one who stands 
in positive fear of her elders. She is reading aloud as 
the curtains rise, and her voice suggests the singer. It 
is full, sweet, resonant. She wears a white dress flow- 
ered in scarlet roses, over a scarlet quilted petticoat. 
Her dark hair is unpowdered. 

Maria 

(reading). 

But all this happened very long ago 

In Greece's golden age, when to and fro 



GRETNA GREEN 43 

Walked nymphs and shepherds, Phyllis, Corydon, 
And strange cold elves on whom the pale moon 
shone 

{She pauses. Then in the same low musical 
voice essays to call her aunt, leaning forward 
half-timidly as she does so. 

Aunt Avis ! Oh, Aunt Avis. She's asleep ! 
Perhaps if I go droning on she'll keep 
So. But how can I read when thoughts roam far! 
Oh, let my pent heart speak the things that are — 
And substitute my own words for this book. 

{She still holds the book, and continues to speak 
lullingly, as if she still read aloud. 

The lines all run together when I look. 

I will pretend to read and lull her sleep. 

Nor dare to stop. Have I the strength to creep 

Up to my room, and there prepare to go? 

I never knew an hour to pass so slow! 

And Richard said we were to meet at ten 

And take the chaise for Gretna Green. Or then 

If that should fail, we'll cross the sea to France. 

And either way 'tis Richard and Romance! 

Poor Aunt! (Looks at her.) What lover ever sighed 

for her ? 
I'm sure she never felt the least, least stir 
Of joy, or hope. Why all her time is spent 
In making elder wine, or liniment. 
Or playing on the harpsichord some tune 
As faded as herself. I think she'd swoon 



44 , GRETNA GREEN 

If she could guess what is a-foot to-night. 
Or else she'd tell my father. That's a plight 
That I grow pale to think on. Nay, 'tis time 

That I were going ! (Clock strikes.) There's 

the half-hour's chime 

(Looks cautiously at her aunt.) 

And aunt still sleeps ! Well, those who love must dare. 
I can creep past again behind her chair 
And lift the latch as quiet as a mouse. 

(She puts down her book, after rising quietly.) 

Listen ! There's not a stir in all the house ! 
Father must be a-bed. I'll fetch my cloak. 

l^She pauseSj center. Her aunt still sleeps 
soundly. Watching her, with great caution 
Maria tiptoes to the door at left, and exits. 
For a moment her aunt continues to slumber, 
then slowly opens her eyes, drowsily stifles 
a yawn, and speaks sleepily. 

Avis 
Child, did I doze? 

[Hearing no answer she looks at Maria's vacant 
chair, and speaks with the confusion of sleep 
still upon her. 

I thought that someone spoke ! 
I must have dreamed it. (Yawns drowsily.) Though 

the wind blows drear 
The Autumn stars shine frostily, and clear. . . . 



Child! 



GRETNA GREEN 45 

[She rises, takes her work, and pauses to look 
out the- window at right. Maria steals in on 
tiptoe, ready for departure. She is fastening a 
scarlet cloak with a hood, and does not per- 
ceive her aunt till she is almost at the outer 
door. 

Avis 

Maria 
(greatly startled). 
Why, Aunt Avis! 



Avis 

Can I trust my sight! 
That hood! That cloak! And at this time of night! 

Maria 
(faltering). 
I do protest 'twas but to take the air 
For a brief moment. 

Avis i 

(with meaning). 

Or a coach and pair. 

Maria 

(aghast: faltering). 

A coach — and Oh, Aunt Avis! Who has told? 



46 ^ GRETNA GREEN 

Avis 
(composedly). 
Why, no one, child. I am not yet too old 
To read the signs where signs are to be seen, 
And this sign plainly points to Gretna Green. 

Maria 

(to herself : more and more amazed). 
To Gretna Green ! And yet she does not swoon ! 

Avis 
(quietly). 
'Tis well you chose a night without a moon. 
Yet why go thus? 

Maria 
(on the verge of tears). 

There was no other way; 
For Richard spoke to father yesterday. 
I listened, trembling, and my father said 
That he would never see his daughter wed 
To anyone as portionless and poor 
As Richard Sheridan. (Sobs.) Or so obscure. 

. Avis 
And was this all? 

Maria 
Yes, all. Naught else I sv/ear. 
So it was either Gretna, or despair. 
Dick said : " At ten ! " And I could not refuse—— 



GRETNA GREEN 47 

Avis 
The chaise ! At ten ! Then you've no time to lose ! 

Maria 
(utterly bewildered). 

"No time to lose /" Oh, she's gone quite, quite 

mad! 

l^Avis crosses swiftly to desk. Opens drawer. 
Takes out a jeweled trinket and money. 
Crosses to her niece. 

Avis 
Here, child, is a small trinket that I had 
When I was young. 'Tis for a wedding gift. 
And these few sovereigns may make a rift 
Of cheerful sunshine on some rainy day. 

Maria 
(with passionate gratitude). 
Aunt Avis! 

[^A step is heard at left. 

Avis 
Nay, be quick ! You must not stay ! 
Your father's coming. Kiss me, child. Adieu! 
All my heart's love and blessings go with you. 

\_Exit Maria, center. Avis has just time to 
snatch up her work when Thomas Linley 
enters. He is a lordly person in a suit of 



48 . GRETNA GREEN 

dark brown velvet. He crosses at once to 
fire. 

LiNLEY 

Zounds! Not in bed yet, Avis? 

(He stands, rubbing his hands.) 

We'll have snow. 
(yawns.) 
On such a night — full thirty years ago — 
Do you remember — you were fain to run 
To Gretna with that linen draper's son? 

Avis 
Yes, I remember. 

LiNLEY 

(with self-satisfaction). 

And I stopped the chaise, 
And brought you back. 

Avis 
To empty, loveless days. 
Yes, I remember. 

LiNLEY 

(yawning). 
Where's Maria? 

Avis 
(with subdued fire). 

Safe/ 



GRETNA GREEN 49 

LiNLEY 

(a bit startled). 
What do you mean? 

Avis 

Why, brother, how you chafe 
At the least word. Where should Maria be? 

LiNLEY 

Lord, the young baggage dares not cope with me ! 

I'm master of my own. 

(There comes the sound of wheels passing without.) 

Zounds, Avis! Hark! 
What's that without? 

Avis 
The wind wails through the darL 

LiNLEY 

But I heard sounds above the wind's shrill cry. 

Avis 
Naught but the post chaise, brother, passing by. 



QUICK CURTAIN 



COUNSEL RETAINED 




Edmund Burke 
From the portrait by George Romney 



COUNSEL RETAINED 

CHARACTERS 

Peg Woffington 

Richard Greville 

Edmund Burke 

Some unseen gallants, admirers of Peg Woffington 

Place: London. 

Time: 1750. A cold Spring night. 

Scene: The apartment of Edmund Burke. 

A room that gives evidence of extreme poverty. It 
is on the ground floor of what was once a fine man- 
sion, but is now a lodging-house dreary and down-at- 
heel. At background, left, a French window with 
rusty lock and broken panes, one of which is stuffed 
with an old hat. At right background a couch with a 
faded and tattered damask cover. 

At left center a hearth with a low fire. Andirons. 
A battered iron kettle on a hob. A dilapidated hearth- 
broom. Drawn near the hearth and facing audience 
a highbacked chair with arms, the remains of what 
was once a fine carved piece of furniture. Tossed over 
the back of it a lawyer's black gown, very frayed. 

53 



54 - COUNSEL RETAINED 

At right, near background, a door opening into the 
hall of the house. Near foreground a cupboard with 
a few dishes, etc. 

In the center of the room a black table with an iron 
strong box, a pile of battered law books, briefs, port- 
folios, papers. A chair drawn up to the right of this. 

On the table and mantelshelf are stubs of candles, 
two in battered pewter candlesticks, and one in the 
neck of a bottle. 

At the rise of the curtain the room is in absolute 
darkness, save for the red spark of the fire burning 
jewel-like in the gloom. A moment afterwards a hand 
from without tries the lock of the French window, and 
wrenches the window open. A woman in a dark cloak 
enters quickly, and lets in a flood of Spring moonlight 
that falls in a broad shaft across the floor. She has no 
time to close the window, but steps quickly into the 
shadows by the fire, and stands silent and motionless, 
her face hidden by the hood of her cloak. From outside 
comes an excited tumult of men's voices. 



First Voice 
Peg! Mistress Woffington! 

[Richard Greville steps through the window, a 
fine-looking young dandy in king's blue 
velvet, with white wig, small sword, flashing 
shoe-buckles. He gives a quick look about 
him, does not perceive the hooded figure and 
speaks back through the window. 



COUNSEL RETAINED 55 

GrEVILLE r- 

She isn't here. 
(With another quick glance at the room.) 
Some pettifogger's lodgings. Gad! It's clear 
That she won't let us chair her through the town. 

Voices 
(without). 
Huzzah for Woffington! 

First Voice 

Come on! 

Second Voice 

We'll drown 
Our ardor at the Crown or Serpentine. 

[This is hailed with a cheer that instantly 
grows fainter as its givers move rapidly away. 

Woffington 
(with involuntary indignation). 
What! Will they drown my memory in wine! 

Greville 

(surprised and entranced). 
Peg! 



56 > COUNSEL RETAINED 

WOFFINGTON 

(sharply). 

S-sh, I tell you! I will not be found. 
Wait till they leave. I'm weary of this round 
Of cheering and of torchlight. Let me be. 

[As she sinks into the chair near hearth the 
moonlight shows her wonderful mobile face. 
The sparkle of excitement and the immortal 
youth of the artist make her look younger 
than she really is. She gives the effect of 
being not more than two and twenty. Her 
thin black silk hooded cloak lined in flame- 
scarlet satin falls back and reveals that over 
a black taffeta petticoat she wears an over- 
dress of black gauze on which are thickly em- 
broidered broad love-knots of silver. She has 
a black lace scarf caught with a huge scarlet 
rose. Above the darkness of her dress her 
neck rises superbly white. She wears no 
jewels. Her dark hair is unpowdered. Her 
little slippers are of the finest make, and 
rest lightly on the ground like two black but- 
terflies. They are without buckles. 

Greville 
(bending over her). 
Why, Peg! Sweet Woffington! 



COUNSEL RETAINED 57 

WOFFINGTON 

(closing her eyes for a moment and leaning back 
wearily in the chair). 

Ah, can't you see 
An actress may grow tired ? I'm fagged to death ! 
(Sudden impish humor lights her face. She opens her 

eyes.) 
Besides, you know, I wish to save my breath. 
I want a little left with which to speak. 
My case against Miss Spleen comes off next week. 

Greville 

Gad! So it does. I'm stupid to forget. 
Have you engaged your counsel? 

WOFFINGTON 

Nay, not yet. 
Sure, Mr. Greville, I have had no time. 

(Sagely.) 
But I'll be ready when the hour shall chime. 

Greville 
Who will you take? 

WOFFINGTON 

(with a gleam). 

'Faith, set your mind at rest. 
I'll choose the one who can defend me best! 
Be sure of that. 



58 ^ COUNSEL RETAINED 

Greville 
How did you come here? 

WOFFINGTON 

I 

Stepped in to let the crowd go sweeping by, 
And did what women can do when they will. 

Greville 
And what was that? 

WOPFINGTON 
(with a deliberate brogue). 

I managed to keep still! 

Greville 
(glancing scornfully about the rothn). 
Who do you think can own this — caravan? 

WoFFINGTON 

Sure, I don't know. It must be some poor man 
Who's having a hard time to make things meet. 
Well, may kind fortune set him on his feet! 
I was poor once. (Pensively.) 

Voices 
(in distance^ without). 
Huzzah ! 



COUNSEL RETAINED 59 

WOFFINGTON 

I must stay here 
Until the streets without begin to clear. 
Fetch me a chair. Come back in half an hour. 
Meanwhile I'll rest. 

Greville 

I will obey. 

WOFFINGTON 

(slight brogue). 

More power 
To you, Dick Greville. 

[Greville smiles delightedly, kisses her hand, 
and exits through French window, which he 
half closes, so that W offington is left partly 
in light, partly in shadow. The moment he 
is gone a key turns in the lock of the door, 
right. W offington starts, looks towards door, 
and draws her cloak about her prepared for 
flight if flight prove necessary. Edmund 
Burke enters, young, shabby, careworn, wear- 
ing a black suit and a black cloak seen sharply 
for a moment as he takes a flint from his 
pocket and tries to strike a light. He has 
not seen Woffington, who instantly draws his 
old gown about her, and slips her arm into 
its sleeves. She stoops forward, rubs her 
handkerchief in the ash that has sifted out 
beyond the hearth, puts a smirch of it on her 



6o COUNSEL RETAINED 

hands, tucks her feet under her, and hud- 
dling deep in the chair assumes a forlorn 
look, closing her eyes. She has slyly man- 
aged to pick up the hearth broom, and it lies 
against her knee. She might, seen in the 
shadow, be a crossing sweeper, instead of an 
actress. Meanwhile Burke has lighted the 
stump of candle standing in the neck of a 
bottle. As soon as it is lit he looks about 
and sees Woffington. 

Burke 

(astonished). 

What is this? 

Woffington 

(with the effect of astonishment, bewilderment, the 

" Where am I" look of a person just wakened). 

Why, oh! 

(She looks at him in consternation, pretends to gather 
her wits together. Speaks coaxingly, as one afraid 
of a reprimand.) 

There was a crowd outside, and so — and so 

I stepped in here a moment, and 'twas warm, 

And I dozed off 

Burke 

I'm sure you meant no harm. 
\He crosses, closes the window, but does not 
try to lock it. Then goes to hearth and 



COUNSEL RETAINED 6i 

lights the stumps of candles on the hearth- 
shelf. 

WOFFINGTON 

(very Irish throughout). 
None in the least, sir. 

Burke 

And your name is 

WOFFINGTON 

Meg 
Some people call me, and the others Peg. 
I like Meg best. 

l^She looks at hi?n with the engagingness of a 
gamin. 

Burke 
(kindly). 
Well, Meg, I greatly fear 
That I can only offer you small cheer. 

WOFFINGTON" 

I don't mind that. 

Burke 
Stale bread, stale cheese, scant light. 
[He has crossed to cupboard, right, and while 
he goes on talking to her sets between them 
on the table cracked plates, a loaf of bread, 
and some cheese. 
What do you do? 



62 ' COUNSEL RETAINED 

WOFFINGTON 

(with an inspiration). 

I — sweep the boards at night! 

Burke 

A crossing sweeper ? 

WOFFINGTON 

(looking down on his cloak). 

'Faith, I know 'twas bold 
To take this cloak: but I was tired and cold, 
And I 

Burke 
(with a whimsical glance at his supper table). 
Ah, the poor know the poor. Sit still. 

WOFFINGTON 
You're very kind. 

Burke 
I know how night can chill 
The very marrow. 

WOFFINGTON 

Are you Irish, too? 

Burke 
Yes. 



COUNSEL RETAINED 63 

WOFFINGTON 

(slowly). 
If it's not — asking too much of you 
What is your name, sir ? 

Burke 

Burke. Unknown to fame. 
Just Edmund Burke. 

WOFFINGTON 

(sagely). 

That's a good Irish name. 
And it will bring you luck. Now, tell me true. 
What do you need most? 

Burke 

Clients. One or two 
Friends in the great world. 

WOFFINGTON 

Have you none? 

Burke 

Nay, none. 

WOFFINGTON 
(encouragingly). 
Keep up your heart. Perhaps you'll meet with one. 



64 ^ COUNSEL RETAINED 

Burke 
(kindly). 
Why, thank you, Meg. 

WOFFINGTON 

You're welcome. 

Burke 
(bowing). 

Will you share 
My bread and cheese? (They begin to eat.) 

WOFFINGTON 

You offer me your fare 
As if I were a lady! 

Burke 
Aren't you? 
Isn't a lady one whose words ring true 
From a kind heart? 

WOFFINGTON 

There's Mistress Woffington — 
She's kind, they say, and yet she isn't one. 

Burke 
(indulgently). 
Isn't a lady? 

Woffington 
You have seen her? 



COUNSEL RETAINED 65 

Burke 

Yes. 
As Harry Wildair, wearing a boy's dress 
With youthful swagger! Lovely! Debonair! 
The darling of the wits! 

WOFFINGTON 

(dryly: with malice). 

Then I dare swear 
You've never seen her in her right clothes ? 

Burke 

No. 
Not yet. 

WOFFINGTON 

But, sir 

Burke 
The times are hard, and so 



(He looks down regretfully at his shabby clothes, and 

makes a rueful gesture.) 
When I've more silver I shall go each night. 

WOFFINGTON 

(with deep conviction). 
You'd spend your good coin on a worthless sight. 
She's just an actress. (She manages to keep her hands 
in the shadow.) 



66 ^ COUNSEL RETAINED 

Burke 
(quietly). 
Tell me what you mean. 

WOFFINGTON 

(with the proper amount of hesitation). 
Well, on the stage, sir, she may be a queen, 

But off the stage ! A zany, underbred, 

Without a scrap of learning in her head. 

Burke 
(indignantly). 
And I suppose her beauty's false as well? 

WOFFINGTON 

Sure, they do say (though you can never tell!) 
That underneath the powder and the paint 
You'll find a — something that is not a saint. 



Be silent! 



Burke 
(furious). 



[He rises, pale with anger. 

WOFFINGTON 
Oh, is Woffington your friend? 
Sure, sir, I had no meaning to offend. 



COUNSEL RETAINED 67 

Burke 

(more quietly). 
Peg WoflGngton is not a friend of mine. 
I saw her once upon the stage. So fine, 
So true an artist that the gossips slur 
Her name through arrant jealousy of her 

(With growing power.) 
Who is as far above them as the light 
Of the first stars. Her genius burns as bright 
As does Orion. Can you look at her 

WOFFINGTON 
(to herself). 
(I often do!) 

Burke 
(sweeping on, unheeding). 
— without a great heart-stir 
Of Irish pride, to think what high renown 
Is worn by lovely Peg of Dublin town? 
(All the fire that will one day be his flames through 

his words.) 
From Ireland, land of all that's brave and sweet. . . . 

WOFFINGTON 

(provocatively). 
Famed for its lawyers, actresses, and — peat! 
(He turns from her indignantly.) 
Sure, don't be angry. I am Irish, too. 



68 ^ COUNSEL RETAINED 

Burke 
(turning on her). 
Take shame, then, to yourself, to think that you 
Speak lightly of Peg Woffington 

WOFFINGTON 

(suddenly standing up, returning to her natural voice 
and manner, and tossing off his cloak so that the 
black and silver and scarlet of her costume shows 
up wondrously in the candlelight). 

Nay, hold! 

I think I know all that I need be told ! 

ril choose the one who can defend me best! 

Burke 
(with icy pride). 
Madam, I'm glad that we have proved a jest 
To pass your time, my poverty and I. 

Woffington 
(with a cry). 
How can you think that! 

Burke 

(bowing sardonically). 

And the moments fly 
When one is well amused. I trust that you 
Have spent your evening profitably. Do 
Remember me at court. (He bows again.) 



COUNSEL RETAINED 69 

WOFFINGTON 

I shall, sir! 
[They have been too engrossed with their own 
emotions to notice GrevUhj who has opened 
the window and stepped in. 

Greville 

Peg, 
I've brought your chair. 

BURKEI 

(suddenly looking at her indignantly). 

You said your name was Meg. 

WOFFINGTON 

(with a return of her gamin accent). 
Well, Meg or Peg, 'tis very much the same: 
And even Shakespeare says: " What's in a name? " 

(Again the fine lady.) 
Mr. Burke, Mr. Greville. 

(Stiff bows. Woffington indicates Burke.) 
He's the one 
Who's to be lawyer for Peg Woffington. (Indicates 
herself.) 

Burke 

(staring at her, fascinated). 
Peg Woffington — you don't mean 



70 ^ COUNSEL RETAINED 

WOFFINGTON 

(laughing). 

Man, you're blind! 
I'm Peg! 

(She sweeps him a curtsey.) 

Burke 
And I, who said you were unkind 
To mock me 

WOFFINGTON 

Find a client here instead ! 
The suit's against Miss Spleen. Say what you said 
To Meg, the crossing sweeper, and all will be well. 
Good night. 

[Greville pauses, waiting for her at the window, 

Burke 
(gazing at her). 
Good night. Your beauty's like a spell 
That holds thanks tongue-tied. 

WOFFINGTON 

(drolh). 

Wouldn't you have known 
We both kissed Ireland's gem — the Blarney Stone. 

(Curtseys.) 
Good night, then. 



COUNSEL RETAINED 71 

[The men bow to each other, and Wofpngton 
starts to join Greville. Then turns impetu- 
ously, runs back to the table, tears the crim- 
son rose from her dress, kisses it lightly and 
tosses it to the table with a charming gesture. 
Here's success ! And great renown ! 

[She runs back, and exits hastily by way of the 
window, Greville following. Burke stands 
for an instant looking after her. Then he 
lifts the rose to his lips. 

Burke 

PegWoffington! The rose of Dublin Town. 

[He stands, smiling dreamily at the rose as the 
curtain falls. 



THE PRINCE OF COURT 
PAINTERS 




George Romney 

From the portrait by himself 



THE PRINCE OF COURT 
PAINTERS 

CHARACTERS 

George Romney (the Prince of Court Painters) 

Mary Romney, his wife 

Lucy Elridge, a neighbor's child. 

Place : A village in the north of England. 

Time: 1799: 

Scene: Mary Romney' s home. 

The living-room of a peasant-like cottage which, 
with its dark floor and walls of time-stained wood, 
and its great rafters, suggests the seventeenth rather 
than the eighteenth century. 

In center background a dark oak door opens on 
a wild bit of moorland stretching towards the western 
skyline. On each side of this door long narrow lat- 
ticed windows swinging inward, and curtained with 
faintly flowered muslin. 

At left a wide-mouthed hearth built of cobblestones. 
Iron andirons and an iron kettle on a hob. On the 
hearthshelf candles in pewter candlesticks, and a plate 
or two. Everywhere simplicity and frugality is mani- 
fest. A dark wooden settle by fire, facing audience. 

A dark-stained table in the center of the room. It 
75 



76 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 

is round, and made of plain wood. There are also in 
other parts of the room some quaint sturdy chairs of 
dark wood set against the wall. 

Against the right wall a dark oak cupboard, contain- 
ing earthenware dishes, and a little food — such as a 
loaf of wheaten bread, butter, cheese, and honey. Be- 
yond this a churn, and a spinning wheel for Mary 
Romney's use. 

At the rise of the curtain a low fire is burning on 
the hearth, and through the open door and western 
windows the light of late afternoon shines on Mary 
Romney as she sits at her spinning wheel, right. She 
is not a young woman, but age has touched her lightly. 
Her figure is still straight and supple. Her snow- 
white hair only adds to the charming effect of the ivory 
pallor of her face. Her eyes have retained their look 
of youth, of a spirit that is never done hoping. There 
is about her an air of gentle strength. She wears a 
dress of dove-gray homespun, with a white linen ker- 
chief crossed on her breast. She has no trinkets or 
adornments of any kind, and needs none. As the cur- 
tain rises she is singing, her voice blending pleasantly 
with the hum of the wheel: 

Mary Romney 
Rest! Rest! Twilight is best. The day's storms die. 
Sleep. Sleep. White stars will keep their watch on 
high. 

[While Mary Romney sings, Lucy Elridge ap- 
pears on the threshold. She is a small child 



THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 77 

of seven or eight years.: She wears a high- 
waisted' frock of white muslin^ plainly made, 
and white stockings with low black slippers 
laced with black ribbon above her ankles. 
On her head a mob cap of white swiss. She 
carries a little wicker basket with flowers 
in it. 

Mary Romney 

(rising). 
Come in. 

Lucy 

(entering). 
What do you sing? 

Mary Romney 

A lullaby 
That sends tired children off to sleep. 

Lucy 

(presenting flowers). 



You've none, 



You live alone — away from everyone. 
But I love you. And that is why I came. 

Mary Romney 
Thank you, dear Lucy. 



78 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 

Lucy 

And I love your name. 
Just " Mary Romney." (Dwells on it musically.) 

I've heard people say 
That someone married you, and went away. 
His name was Romney, too. And then you left 
The place where you were living. 

Mary Romney 

What a weft 
Do gossips weave! With what threads is it strung! 

Lucy 
(innocently sage). 
It happened long ago, when you were young. 
I heard it all. Something to you was sent. 
And since that time both food and warmth you've spent 
On the world's poor. Who are the world's poor? 

Mary Romney 
(quietly). 

Those 
To whom life gives the thorn, but not the rose. 

Lucy 
I do not understand. 

Mary Romney 

How should you, dear. 



THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 79 

Lucy 

(coaxingly, leaning against Mary Romney^s knee). 
Tell me about " When you were young." 

Mary Romney 

I fear 
I cannot. (Staring before her.) Why, to think of 

such a thing 
Is like a dream. Black as the raven's wing 
My hair was then. 

Lucy 

And were your cheeks as pink 
As Mother's are? 

Mary Romney 
Yes. Is it strange to think 
That I was young once? Ah, time's wind can blow 
The reddest roses into flowers of snow. 

Lucy 

(puzzled). 
Like Winter? 

Mary Romney 
Aye. 

Lucy 
(innocently). 
Was he — was Romney old 
And cross like Gaffer Matthew? Did he scold? 



8o TliE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 

Mary Romney 
(deeply). 
No. 
(She forgets Lucy. Her face is lit by an inner flame.) 

He was young — young as the morning star, 
And blithe as Spring. (With sudden quiet.) But, 

child, those days are far. 
Too far to talk about. 

(Lucy turns reluctantly and takes her basket.) 
Dear, must you go? 

Lucy 

My Mother says my feet are always slow 
Upon the homeward way. 

\Mary Romney crosses to cupboard, takes out 
a pat of butter and a little tart. 

Mary Romney 
(indicating Lucy's basket). 

Child, will this hold 
A little pat of butter, bright as gold, 
And a small tart? 

Lucy 
I thank you. 

Mary Romney 

Now run home. 

I would not have you linger through the gloam. 

\^She kisses Lucy, who exits sedately, carrying 

her basket. For a moment Mary Romney 



THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 8i 

leans by the door watching her^ then she re- 
turns te her wheel. The light of afternoon 
has faded into the glow of sunset. As Mary 
Romney sits at her wheel a shadow falls 
across the doorway. She looks up and sees 
a slim dark man, worn, hut not bent with 
age. His hair is grizzled, and hangs loosely 
about his pale passionate face. He wears a 
weatherworn black cloak and black suit. A 
broad felt hat, with dilapidated brim, a very 
scarecrow of a hat. From under its brim 
the haunted eyes of the man look out like 
the eyes of a lost soul. Fatigue, hunger, de- 
spair have set their thumb-mark on him. He 
belongs to the Lost Legion of the world. 
Under his arm he carries a battered port- 
folio of black leather worn gray with time 
and exposure. No one would ever guess this 
apparition to be Romney. Least of all does 
Romney's wife guess it. Too many years 
have come and gone since their last meeting. 

Romney 

Could you give shelter to a traveler 

So worn and weary that he scarce can stir 

Another foot along the road? 

(Mary rises and looks at him pityingly.) 

I fear 
That I have startled you. And yet — look clear 
And see what begs a refuge! Bone and shred 
Can scarce work harm to any. (He coughs.) 



82 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 

Mary Romney 
(with swift compassion). 

Warmed and fed 

You shall be. 

Romney , 

Thank you — greatly. 
l^He crosses weakly to the fire. Mary crosses 
to the cupboard and brings him a plate of 
bread and a cup of cordial. 

Mary Romney 

Sit you down. 
Often do folk pass by here from the town, 
Early and late, and though I live alone 
I never have had cause to fear. 

Romney 
(sitSj leaning back, spent). 
A stone 
Is what the world gives when you ask for bread ; 
Yet you give this 

Mary Romney 

Eat, and be comforted. 
(Cheerily.) 
" Darkest before the dawn " the old wives say. 

Romney 

I am a traveler who has lost his v/ay. 
And followed ignus fatuus till the night 
Closed in on me, and left me without light. 



THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 83 



Mary Romney 

(to herself). 



He wanders. 



Romney 
(half -hearing her). 
Aye. Oh, I have wandered far, 
And though the dancing wisp-light was a star, 
The light called "Art." 

Mary Romney 
You are an artist? (He bows.) Then 
You must have heard of him ! (Her voice thrills with 
pride.) 

Romney 

Him? 

Mary Romney 

Whom all men 
Praise. The great Romney. (The name transfigures 
her.) 

Romney 

He is great no more. 
Why, I have heard he goes from door to door 
Glad of a little charity. 

Mary Romney 
(proudly). 
You err. 
He is the prince of all court painters, sir. 
His friends are lords and duchesses. 



84 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 

ROMNEY 

They slip 
From him as rats desert a rotting ship 
That's settling down and down. 

Mary Romney 

/ ' (torn). 

Is this thing true? 

Romney 
(his haunted eyes on her). 
Should I give falsehood as a coin to you 
Who are so kind? 

Mary Romney 

(passionately). 
Where is he? 



Romney 
Mary Romney 



Who can say. 



Had he no wife? 

Romney 
In some far yesterday 
I think he had. But when Sir Joshua said : 
" Forget your country marriage, and instead 
Take Art to wife," he left her. Well, his art 
Brought fame and money ; but his secret heart 
Like a closed house, was haunted by a ghost. . . , 



THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 85 

Mary Romney 
(quietly). 
Yet there were other women. 

Romney 
(wearily). 

Oh, a host 
Of frilled and furbelowed great ladies. ... 

Mary Romney 

One 

Of these was called the Lady Hamilton, 
Was she not? (She lights a candle on the mantle- 
shelf.) 

Romney 
Yes. 

Mary Romney 

And he loved her? 

Romney 

Her face 
Bewitched the artist in him, and her grace 
Filled many a canvas. 

Mary Romney 

And he loved her. 



86 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 

ROMNEY 

(rousing himself). 

No. 
He loved her beauty. (With renewed quiet.) That 

was long ago, 
And all of it is like a tale that's told. 

(Bitterly.) 

Only one love did Romney's bleak heart hold 
And her he wronged. 

Mary Romney 

And will he not return? 

Romney 

(wryly). 

And say, " My wife, whose love I seemed to spurn, 

You did not share in my celebrity; 

But now I'm old and poor. Pray comfort me." 

(For an instant his face lights sardonically.) 

I think that Romney would not fall so low 
For all his faults. 

Mary Romney 

Does he — does Romney know 
Where his wife lives ? 



THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 87 

ROMNEY 

Nay. Somewhere in the North. 
He's lost all trace. (Rises.) 'Tis time that I set forth 
Ere night falls utterly. 

(He opens his portfolio, fumbles in it, takes out a 
sketch.) 

I pray you take 
A little sketch, such as I used to make. 
'Tis all the coin I have. (He coughs.) 

Mary Romney 

(amazed). 

'Tis finely done. 
Aye, wondrous fine! 

[Before he has grasped what she is doing she 
takes another picture from the portfolio, the 
rosy portrait of a young and beautiful coun- 
try girl. 

Oh, let me see this one! 

Romney 

A sketch of Romney 's wife, made by himself 
From memory. Life-sized. 

Mary Romney 

(stooping at hearth and taking money from under loose 

stone). 

Beneath this shelf 
I have ten pounds and more. Sell this to me. 

(As if in explanation of her strange conduct.) 
It is so young! So fair! 



88 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 

ROMNEY 

(looking at it with the enthrallment of the artist). 

It cannot be. 
I cannot sell it. It is Romney's wife. 
Painted from memory. And true to life 
Each contour that I loved. 

Mary Romney 

You loved! 



Romney 



Yes, I 



Am Romney. 

\He looks at the picture as if held by a spell. 
For all that he sees or hears he is alone in 
the room. 

Mary Romney 
Romney! 

Romney 

Why, M^ith what a cry 
You speak my name. 

[They gaze at each other in the dim light. 

Mary Romney 
Mine also. 
\She faces him steadily. Romney snatches up 
the candle, looks at her. Puts it down. 



THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 89 

ROMNEY 

God is just. 
He leads me, old and humble, in the dust 

Before your door 

[^His head is bowed for an instant. He cannot 
look at her. Slowlyj and with dread, he 
raises his eyes, and meets her answering look, 
her gesture towards him. Speaks brokenly, 
uncertainly. 

I, who should be reviled. . . . 
You can forgive me. . . . 

Mary Romney 
(with beautiful maternal tenderness). 

Why, you are my child. 
My genius child, who all day long must roam, 
And then at twilight sees the lights of home. 

Romney 

Mary! 

Mary Romney 
I ask no question of the past. 
What was mine at the first is now mine last. 

Romney 
(still brokenly: to himself). 
' And ministering angels came to bless- 



Ah, but I have no right (Yet his eyes implore 

her.) 



90 THE PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS 

Mary Romney 

After day's stress 
Comes peace and twilight. Look, where the last bar 
Of sunset fades, the steadfast evening star! 

\Through the last rose of sunset and the gath- 
ering violet of dusk the white glimmer of the 
evening star is seen through the open door- 
way. Mary Romney, her hand on Romney^s 
shoulder, watches it, and with a half breath 
sings very low and soothingly, her voice a 
crooning murmur: 
Rest! Rest! Twilight is best. The day's storms die. 

Romney 
What do you sing? 

Mary Romney 
(with ineffable tenderness). 

A tired child's lullaby. 
[The music of the song is faintly continued by 
the orchestra as the curtain falls. 



BOOKS ON AND OF SCHOOL PLAYS 

By Constance D'Arcy Mackay 

HOW TO PRODUCE CHILDREN'S PLAYS 

The author is a recognized authority on the production 
of plays and pageants in the public schools, and combines en- 
thusiastic sympathy with sound, practical instructions. She 
tells both how to inspire and care for the young actor, how 
to make costumes, properties, scenery, where to find de- 
signs for them, what music to use, etc., etc. She prefaces it 
all with an interesting historical sketch of the plays-for-chil- 
dren movement, includes elaborate detailed analyses of per- 
formances of Browning's Pied Piper and Rosetti's Pageant 
of the Months, and concludes with numerous valuable an- 
alytical lists of plays for various grades and occasions. 
$1.20 net (Feb., 1914). 

PATRIOTIC PLAYS AND PAGEANTS 

Pageant of Patriotism (Outdoor and Indoor Versions) : — 
*Princess Pocahontas, Pilgrim Interlude, Ferry Farm Epi- 
sode, *George Washington's Fortune, *Daniel Boone : Patriot, 
Benjamin Franklin Episode, Lincoln Episode, Final Tableau. 

Hawthorne Pageant (for Outdoor or Indoor Produc- 
tion) : — Chorus of Spirits of the Old Manse, Prologue by the 
Muse of Hawthorne, In Witchcraft Days, Dance Interlude, 
Merrymount, etc. 

The portions marked with a star (*) are one-act plays 
suitable for separate performance. There are full directions 
for simple costumes, scenes, and staging. 12mo. $1.35 net. 

THE HOUSE OF THE HEART 

Short plays in verse for children of fourteen or younger : — 
"The House of the Heart (Morality Play)— "The Enchanted 
Garden" (Flower Play) — "A Little Pilgrim's Progress" (Mor- 
ality Play) — "A Pageant of Hours" (To be given Out of 
Doors) — "On Christmas Eve." "The Princess and the Pix- 
ies." "The Christmas Guest" (Miracle Play.), etc. $1.10 net. 

"An addition to child drama which has been sorely needed." — Boston 
Transcript. 

THE SILVER THREAD 

And Other Folk Plays. "The Silver Thread" (Cornish) ; 
"The Forest Sprmg" (Italian) ; "The Foam Maiden" (Celtic) ; 
"Troll Magic" (Norwegian) ; "The Three Wishes" (French) ; 
"A Brewing of Brains" (English) ; "Siegfried" (German) ; 
"The Snow Witch" (Russian). $1.10 net. 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



By GEORGE MIDDLETON 

POSSESSION 

With The Groove, The Black Tie, A Good Woman, Circles 
and The Unborn. One-act American Plays. (Just pub- 
lished.) $1.35 net. 

These plays respectively concern (1) A divorced couple and 
their little girl; (2) A girl's w^ish to escape village monotony; 

(3) a woman's reputation and a man's public usefulness; 

(4) The quiet tragedy of a mulatto maid; (5) A mother's 
sacrifice to keep a home for her daughter, and (6) Hovf 
an unknown woman brought a message to a young couple. 

EMBERS 

With The Failures, The Gargoyle, In His House, Ma- 
donna and The Man Masterful. One-act American 
Plays. $1.35. 

Richard Burton, in The Bellman: "Embers is a volume of sketches 
which show the trained hand of the expert and are, moreover, decidedly- 
interesting for their psychological value." 

Prof. William Lyon Phelps of Yale: "The plays are admirable; the 
conversations have the true style of human speech, and show first-rate 
economy of words, every syllable advancing the plot. The little dramas 
are full of cerebration, and I shall recommend them in my public 
lectures." 

TRADITION 

With On Bail, Mothers, Waiting, Their Wife and The 
Cheat of Pity. One-act American Plays. $1.35. 

New York Times: Mr. Middleton's plays furnish interesting read- 
ing. . . . The author deserves praise for his skill and workmanship 
. . . succeeds admirably as a chronicler of striking events and as an 
interpreter of exceptional people in exceptional circumstances." 

NOWADAYS 

A. three-act comedy of American Life. $1.00. 

The Nation: "Without a shock or a thrill in it, but steadily interest- 
ing and entirely human. All the characters are depicted with fidelity 
and consistency; the dialogue is good and the plot logical." 

Alice Stone Blackwell, in Woman's Journal: "The spirit of the 
Twentieth Century is in his plays and also a spirit of justice anl gener- 
osity towards women." 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



A FEW RECENT PLAYS BY AMERICANS 

Beulah M. Dix's ACROSS THE BORDER 

A play against- war, showing in four scenes, two "beyond 
the border" of life, the adventures of a highly likable young 
Lieutenant. He goes on a desperate mission, finds The Place 
of Quiet and The Dream Girl, as well as The Place of Winds, 
where he learns the real nature of War, and finally in a field 
hospital tries to deliver his message. With 2 illustrations. 
80 cents net. 

New York Tribune: "One of the few pleas for peace that touch both 
the heart and the intelligence. ... Its remarkable blending of stark 
realism with extravagant fancy strikes home. . . . It is well nigh 
impossible to rid one's mind of its stirring effect." 

New York Times: "Impressive, elaborate and ambitious. _. . . A 
voice raised in the theater against the monstrous horror and infamy of 
war. . . . The Junior Lieutenant has in him just a touch of 'The 
Brushwood Boy.' " 

Of the author's "Allison''s Lad" and other one-act plays 
of various wars ($1.35 net). The Transcript said, "The tech- 
nical mastery of Miss Dix is great, but her spiritual mastery 
is greater. For this book lives in the memory." 

Percival L. Wilde'a DAWN and Other One-Act Plays 

"Short, sharp and decisive" episodes of contemporary life. 
Notable for force, interest and at times humor. $L20 net. 

DAWN, a tense episode in the hut of a brutal miner, with 
a supernatural climax. THE NOBLE LORD, a comedy 
about a lady, who angled with herself as bait. THE 
TRAITOR is discovered by a ruse of a British command- 
ing officer. A HOUSE OF CARDS, about a closed door, 
and what was on the other side — tragic. PLAYING WITH 
FIRE, a comedy about the devotion of a boy and girl. THE 
FINGER OF GOD points the way to an ex-criminal by 
means of a girl he had never seen before. 

Uly A. Long's RADISSON: The Voyageur 

A highly picturesque play in four acts and in verse. The 
central figures are Radisson the redoubtable voyageur who 
explored the Upper Mississippi, his brother-in-law Groseil- 
liers, Owera the daughter of an Indian chief, and various 
other Indians. The daring resource of the two white men in 
the face of imminent peril, the pathetic love of Owera, and 
above all, the vivid pictures of Indian life, the women grind- 
ing corn, the council, dances, feasting and famine are notable 
features, and over it all is a somewhat unusual feeling for 
the moods of nature which closely follow those of the people 
involved. $1.00 net. 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



CLARK'S CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY— Outline* 
for Its Study 

By Barrett H. Clark^ Editor of and Translator of two of 
the plays in "Three Modern French Plays." 12mo. 
$1.35 net. 
Suggestions, questions, biographies, and bibliographies for 
use in connection with the study of some of the more import- 
ant plays of Ibsen, Bjornsen, Strindberg, Tolstoy^ Gorky, 
TcHEKOFF, Andre\teff, Hauptmann, Sudermann, Wedekind, 
Schnitzler, Von Hoffmansthal, Becque, Le Maitre, Lave- 

DAN, DONNAY^ MaETERLINCK, RoSTAND, BrIEUX, HeRVIEU, 

GiAcosA, D'Annunzio, Echegaray, and Galdos. 

In half a dozen or less pages for each play, Mr. Clark 
tries to indicate, in a way suggestive to playwriters and 
students, how the skilled dramatists write their plays. It_ is 
intended that the volume shall be used in connection with 
the reading of the plays themselves, but it also has an inde- 
pendent interest in itself. 

Prof. William Lyon Phelps of Yale: ". . . One of the most useful 
works on the contemporary drama. . . . Extremely practical, full 
of valuable hints and suggestions. . . ." 

Providence Journal: "Of undoubted value. ... At the com- 
pletion of a study of the plays in connection with the 'Outline' one 
should have a definite knowledge of the essentials of dramatic tech- 
nique in general, and of the modern movement in particular." 

Sixth Edition, Enlarged and with Portraits 

HALE'S DRAMATIST'S OF TO-DAY 

By Prof. Edward Everett Hale, Jr., of Union College. 
Rostand, Hauptmann, Sudermann, 
PiNERo, Shaw, Phillips, Maeterlinck 
"A Note on Standards of Criticism," "Our Idea of 

Tragedy," and an appendix of all the plays of each author, 

with dates of their first performance or publication, complete 

the volume, $1.50 net. 

New York Evening Post: "It is not often nowadays that a theatrical 
book can be met with so free from gush and mere eulogy, or so 
weighted by common sense ... an excellent chronological appendix 
and full index . . . uncommonly useful for reference." 

Brooklyn Eagle: "A dramatic critic who is not just 'busting^ himself 
with Titanic intellectualities, but who is a readable dramatic critic. 
. . . . Mr. Hale is a modest and sensible, as well as an acute and 
sound critic. ... Most people will be surprised and delighted with 
Mr. Hale's simplicity, perspicuity and ingenuousness." 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

publishers new YORK 



